


if it's the last thing we ever do

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2591144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt credit goes to <b>adreadfulidea</b>, although the initial ask more or less turned into a 1970s AU before I was done with it. One morning, Peggy and Stan get some brand-new neighbors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if it's the last thing we ever do

 The voice came from outside Peggy’s bedroom window: loud and agitated.

“No—Pop, will you just—stop trying to lift things! I told you, I'll get it!”

Tossing her book aside, Peggy got up from her armchair and peered out through the blinds of her bedroom window, where in the cramped parking lot behind their split-level apartment, an old man in a plain t-shirt, trousers, and a back brace was standing in front of a packed truck bed. He was facing down an enormous chest of drawers lying close to the open hitch. Standing next to him was a young skinny guy with flyaway black hair, wearing a patterned short-sleeved shirt and ill-fitting jeans. His son, maybe. She was pretty sure neither of them could lift that chest of drawers alone without getting crushed to death.

“He's gonna slip a disc if he tries that,” said Stan, coming over to stand next to her, and shaking his head like he couldn't believe they didn't hire movers in the first place.

She gave him a pleading look. “You should help. What if they fall down the stairs?”

With 2A sitting empty above them, that possibility wasn't out of the question. She'd seen the older man around a couple of weeks ago, filling out paperwork on the stoop with the landlord.

“You could help,” Stan retorted, pushing at her shoulder in a playful way, but he was already crossing the room to grab his sneakers.

Two hours later, they were all in Peggy’s living room, eating Chinese out of cartons from the place down the street. Morris and Michael had just moved to the Upper West Side from Queens.

“So,” Peggy said, directing most of her questions to the younger Ginsberg. She kept forgetting his first name, for some reason, and mentally recited it to herself. _Michael. Michael_. “Michael, what do you do?”

Michael shook his head, like he was embarrassed. “Oh—it's—listen, I'm just a—”

“My boy's a writer,” interrupted Morris, pride obvious in his heavily-accented voice. He sounded very Eastern European. Peggy liked him immediately. “I keep telling him, he'll be New York Times list someday.”

“No shit,” said Stan, giving Peggy a look with raised eyebrows. _Well, we've got another one._ “So's Peg. What do you write—fiction, poetry?”

“I—” Michael's cheeks were flushed, and he turned back to his father, “come on, Pop, I haven't even had anything published yet—”

“Bah. What does it matter?” insisted his father, in a gruff way that indicated they'd probably had this conversation before. “I keep telling you, you're a smart boy—”

Stan met Peggy's eyes and raised his eyebrows as if in a shrug. Peggy decided to pretend like the question of being published didn't matter one way or the other.

“Well, do you have an idea notebook, at least?” she asked, crunching down on a piece of water chestnut. “Do you work on something every day?”

Ginsberg blinked at her as if she were crazy. “Well...yeah—I mean, you can't turn that kinda shit off, otherwise it just—pours out of you. I can't stop. I think up new ideas all the time.”

She made a satisfied noise, and popped another tiny piece of carrot into her mouth with her chopsticks. “Then you're a writer. Everyone starts out unpublished.”

Stan, of course, had to make a joke. “Welcome to the business, kid.”

While Michael was busy fishing the last piece of broccoli out of his carton, Morris nodded to them in a way that said he was grateful for the support.

**

After dinner, Morris went to bed. Peggy and Stan had to walk a few blocks over to the corner market, and invited Michael to come with them.

“We'll buy you a beer,” she offered.

Apparently, Michael didn’t drink beer, but he took them up on the walk all the same. Peggy and Stan did most of the talking. Stan gave Michael a rundown of their most immediate neighbors, pointing to a pristine white duplex directly to their left as they crossed the first street.

“Okay. The professors are in there.” He suppresses a snicker. “You ever seen _My Fair Lady?_ Imagine Marilyn Monroe subbed in for Audrey Hepburn.”

“Shh,” Peggy warned with a smile, although the comparison was terrifyingly accurate. She leaned around to catch Michael's eye as they passed the front windows, speaking in a hushed voice. “Lane's very nice—almost retired.”

“And Joan'll warm up to you eventually.” Stan pointed to the yellow house two doors down, which boasted huge splashes of purple and red paint on the steps, as if someone had dropped a couple of open buckets on their way inside. “This one's the sorority house. Lease changes every year, but it's always girls. I think it's a couple of actresses, this time.”

“Like you don't know,” Peggy huffed, pretending to be upset, and slapping Stan's hand away as he tried to poke her in the ribs. “You talk to that French woman every day.”

Eventually, they even got Michael to talk a little; he spoke in short, quick bursts at first, as if he was surprised anyone was even listening to him. After they were walking back from the store, and he'd gulped down some of his beer, his curiosity started to show. “Who's next door to us? On the right?”

“Cosgroves. Ken and Peggy go way back. His wife throws killer holiday parties.”

“But you don't have to go to those,” Peggy interrupted, noticing the alarmed look that came to Michael's face after he heard the word _parties_. “Unless you want to.”

**

They got into a friendly routine over the next few weeks. Since he couldn’t support himself with his writing, Ginsberg worked third shift construction, and usually got restless before he left for work. Half the time when Stan came home from whatever freelance job he was on, or when Peggy went out to run a few errands after hitting her page count, he'd be milling around the neighborhood alone, or loafing at the nearest newsstand. He’d spend ten minutes thumbing through newspapers and magazines and ten-cent paperbacks until Olaf told him to beat it.

If he wasn’t working, usually they'd say hello. She’d make Ginsberg come with her to the corner store, and then he'd keep going to the nearest subway station or to the park while she'd pick up a tin of cat food, turn around, and head right back to her typewriter.

One Sunday night, she and Stan were leaving for a late dinner when they saw Michael sitting on the stoop near their doorway, idly picking at a large splinter of wood threatening to peel off the side of the frame.

“Why are you out here?” Stan asked, not unkindly. “You waiting for us?”

“What? No, sorry—my pop—uh, he—there's a lady he's been seeing for a while. I didn't want to—I told him I'd stay out of his hair.”

There was a scrape-squeak from upstairs, like the sound of a metal chair being dragged against the wood floor. Peggy couldn't quite place the noise until she heard it again a few seconds later, followed by a distinct feminine giggle. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Oh, god.

Ginsberg just sighed. “I keep telling him not to let her rearrange the furniture, but he never listens. It's always in a different place after she’s visited.”

Stan did laugh at that, shaking his head and giving Peggy a look like it was taking all his effort not to comment on this level of naivete. “Come on, kid. You're going out with us.”

**

“Jesus,” Ginsberg said, his mouth dropping open into a horrified expression. He quickly closed it, and squeezed his eyes shut, one arm extended toward their side of the booth, like the gesture would physically repel Stan's words. “Aw, no. No, no, no, no, no.”

“You really didn't put that together?” Stan asked, looking sympathetic, considering the topic. He pushed his half-full beer mug in the younger man's direction. Peggy was pleased to see Ginsberg open his eyes at the noise, then reach out, grab the glass, and gulp down several swallows.

“You know what, it may surprise you to learn I didn't think about that crap at all until you—” he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, wincing again as he set down the mug onto the vinyl countertop. “ _Shit_. Oh, I hate you. I hate you so much.”

"Well, I think it's romantic,” Peggy said cheerfully, as if they talked about their neighbors' sex lives all the time. “They could get married, you know.”

Ginsberg looked even more distraught. “But—where would I live?”

She was going to laugh until he continued, in a more urgent voice. “It's always just been the two of us. Me and Pop. What would he need me around for, if he got married? I—Jesus, I never lived by myself in my life.”

He actually sounded worried—terrified, even—and she had to fight to keep herself from putting a hand over his. “Michael.”

“Don't call me that,” he whined, but it was half-hearted.

“Ginzo,” Stan said instead, like he was supplying someone with the crib sheet for the easiest test in the world. “Come on. He won't kick you out. He's your dad, for god's sake.”

“I can't live with a _married couple_ ,” Ginsberg groaned, running his hands through his curly hair.

Peggy eyed him with concern, sorry to have brought it up. “Well, technically, they're not married _yet._ ”

**

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” spat Ginsberg as he stormed through the front door, tossed his soaking wet plaid jacket onto the ground, and promptly sprawled out facedown onto the living room carpet.

Peggy didn't even flinch at the outburst, just glanced up from her work to see Stan coming in the door behind him, his expression tight with stress.

“Was it that bad?” she asked, putting her notepad and pen aside.

He shrugged, looking weary. “Total shithole.”

“It had _rats,_ ” Ginzo hissed in a muffled voice, a visible shudder passing through his body. “Peggy, I saw a goddamn rat. I hate those fucking things—”

She clapped one hand over her mouth, speaking in a whisper. “Ew.”

“Four days,” Ginsberg said from his position on the floor, voice still muffled by the shag carpet.  “They're leaving on their honeymoon in four days, and I told Pop I'd be out by then—”

“Man, he's not gonna kick you out,” Stan said for what was probably the millionth time, hanging up his coat and stepping over Ginsberg's prone form to give Peggy a quick kiss as he sat down next to her on the couch.

“I can't stay with them,” Ginsberg said, just as emphatic as if he was thinking about the rats again. “It wouldn't be right.”

Peggy let out a sigh, her bangs blowing in all directions with the movement. They'd talked about nothing but the looming wedding for months. Morris had even tried to talk to her about it, for god’s sake. He was worried Ginsberg was going to do exactly this, and get worked up for no reason.

“So stay with us,” she said on an impulse. “You're here all the time, anyway.”

Ginsberg snapped his head up to stare at her. “What?”

“You do realize we'd have to clean out the other bedroom,” Stan said conversationally, as if this were the only flaw in an otherwise brilliant plan.

Peggy raised an eyebrow in clear challenge. “So what?”

**

“Jesus,” said Ginsberg, eyeing the overflowing stacks of boxes and junk as if they were going to topple onto him and crush him at any moment. “Where the hell did you get all this? I mean—what—even _is_ it?”

“I don’t know,” Peggy sighed, putting a hand over her eyes. “It’s—not that bad.”

“Cat got trapped in here once,” said Stan, with a pointed look at Ginsberg, who shuddered.

Peggy watched as a broken child’s bicycle in the back corner wobbled precariously on top of a rusted toaster, which was peeking out of a large, full laundry basket and balanced on what looked like a stack of two to three file boxes. She’s pretty sure most of the stuff in that part of the room was her mother’s, from the last Bay Ridge apartment. Anita kept saying it got in the way, with the kids and everything, so Peggy’d actually been a good sister for once and taken some of it back.

“Jesus,” Ginsberg says again, “even my Pop isn’t this bad. You keep a lot of shit.”

“Shut up,” grumbled Peggy, but with the kind of sigh that said she was willing to get rid of a couple of things.

**

Ginsberg jumped back from a box with a yelp, wheeling around with his eyes squeezed closed. “I can’t look through this one—Peggy, you—gotta do it.”

“What is it?” she asked, stuffing some more of her old secretarial school papers into a black garbage bag. She could barely see what he was gesturing at. They’d cleared out enough junk for a small path across the front of the room by the doorway, but in this particular corner she was still trapped by boxes on three sides.

“I—you just have to,” Ginsberg repeated, his voice getting louder and more urgent. “Just—Stan, gimme another box!”

“Hang on, let me see it,” Stan said, with the kind of tone that suggested he was talking to a petulant kid. He walked over, looked into the indicated box, and started to laugh. Hard.

Peggy didn’t know what the hell was so funny until a white piece of fabric sailed over the stack of boxes that was still blocking her view. She picked it off of the leg of a nearby wicker chair, unfolded the offending item, and rolled her eyes. This was from the—well, she was fat and still borrowing Anita’s clothes, at that point.

“They’re your—delicates,” Ginsberg whispered, his voice hoarse. She could just picture the horrified expression that accompanied this outburst. “I mean, Jesus, don’t you care that I saw ‘em? _I shouldn’t know what they look like!_ ”

She couldn’t help smiling. God, it’s not like they’re skimpy. They’re basically granny panties: plain white cotton, with the elastic shot to hell. “Michael, these are probably fifteen years old. I don’t even wear them anymore.”

“Too bad,” muttered Stan with a snort, which must have earned him some kind of shove, because as she picked her way around the corner to see what they were doing, the two of them were busy hitting each other with half-full garbage bags of Anita’s old clothes, Stan giggling like a helpless twelve-year old as he dodged Ginsberg’s blows, and Michael with his face flushed red from his ears down to his neck, getting more annoyed with every miss.

“Goddamn it!”

**

Stan’s hand skated up her inner thigh, teasing up under the high school football t-shirt she’d stolen from him to wear as a nightgown. Peggy bit her lip as he touched her, glancing over in the darkness toward their closed door. There was no sound from the living room, where Michael was sleeping on the couch. He’d gotten home early from work tonight, and been restless for so long the tossing and turning had actually woken her up a couple of times. Which is how this started.

His fingers sought out that little bundle of nerves, and when he touched her clit—so gently it made her want to kill him—she couldn’t help but let out a ragged breath. “Jesus.”

In the dark, Stan’s answering chuckle was both reassuring and maddening. “Think you can keep quiet?” And suddenly he was dragging her shirt over her head, bending his head to her breast as he continued touching her.

She gasped, arching her hips off the bed. “Oh—god, that feels—”

He tore his mouth away from one nipple, and even in the dark she could see his lips were red and wet as he moved to kiss her neck, just above her collarbone. He didn’t stop the movement of his hands, but it wasn’t enough for her to get what she needed.

“Come on,” she whined, because usually if he teased her he didn’t care if she was loud; trying to keep from being overheard was killing her. “Oh, shit, come on.”

He stopped completely at that point, and she let out a groan of frustration, pushing at his shoulders in a desperate way until she realized he was slowly moving down the bed. He bent and planted several kisses across her stomach; she spread her legs to make room for him, her hands coming up to cradle the sides of his head so he could—

The first touch of his tongue was so electric she couldn’t help but cry out.

“ _Stan_ —”

He moaned against her, like this was the hottest thing he’d ever heard, and she gasped again, her hands tightening in the back of his hair.

**

A deep moan echoed out from behind the closed door, and Ginsberg’s hand moved faster under the waist of his pajama pants. God, he was going to die if he couldn’t—the sounds they were making—their bed kept squeaking and he kept thinking about them in there, together, naked—Peggy was panting like she was sprinting down an alley, actually begging, saying the dirtiest stuff, and Stan wasn’t even talking, he just kept— _whimpering_ —Ginsberg couldn’t keep his hands from—he couldn’t stop—

Peggy screamed. Stan let out another groan; Michael thrust up into his hand and came with a shudder and a ragged gasp.

**

He’d snuck out before they could get up and wandered around for what felt like hours, so anxious he felt sick to his stomach. God. He’d—and they’d—he was never gonna be able to look at Stan again, let alone talk to Peggy. What the hell was wrong with him? Why would he do that? Why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone? Now he’d have to find a new place for real—and new friends, like _that_ was gonna happen.

God, he hated himself sometimes.

Michael got kicked out of a diner, a used bookstore, and the corner market down the street before he’d given up trying to distract himself with random shit, and just started to wander the block again. He didn’t mean to end up in anyone’s hair, but he just…spent so much time pacing the maze of alleys on their block that he got caught up inside his own head, and hopped someone’s white-picket fence without thinking.

He wasn’t gonna do anything bad; he just liked sitting in the grass in the corner of this garden, eyes closed, face pressed against the warm wood with the sun beating down on his body. He could smell the dirt and the flowers and hear bees and things buzzing around. It was almost enough to keep him calm until the door opened, and he heard a man’s voice: a kind of stunned shout. “What—you there!”

Ginsberg shot up like a bat out of hell, sun in his eyes almost blinding. “Shit! I’m sorry!”

He took three running steps, tripped over the tines of a rake, and felt the handle smash into his nose before he went down. Next thing he knew he was woozy and seeing spots—there was a hand on his shoulder, helping him up and toward the porch, and a woman’s voice.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Her tone was brisk and businesslike. Michael glanced at her three fingers, then closed his eyes again, and dutifully tried to wipe his face with his jacket sleeve. It didn’t help. Probably just smeared the blood around.

“How many?” she demanded.

“Uh. Three,” he mumbled, voice thick from the congestion.

“He all right?” said a suspicious voice from behind him—same guy as before, he thought. English accent.

“Yes,” said the woman, with a huff. “Tilt your head back,” she told Michael. Her fingers closed around his left wrist, guiding it to his face. “Pinch your nose closed.”

“I’m—really sorry,” he mumbled again, after a couple of minutes of sitting there in silence. “Honest—”

“Just let me see your nose,” she interrupted, and he blinked his eyes open, automatically pulling his hand away from his face. The first thing he noticed about her was her bright red hair. She was really pretty, even for an older lady. The man standing behind her was weird-looking by comparison; he definitely looked like a teacher, tweed jacket with elbow patches and thick glasses and everything.

“Well, it isn’t broken. You’re lucky.” As she studied him, another drop of blood fell from one nostril onto his shirt front, and Ginsberg quickly pressed the web of his hand back to his nose.

Shit. Why hadn’t it stopped yet?

“Sorry,” he said for the third time. His voice was more nasal than usual. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just couldn’t walk around the alley anymore.”

The woman just sighed, like this was about as pathetic a reason as she’d expected. “One of the writers,” she said to the man, as if this explained everything. But when she looked back at Michael, she didn’t seem angry, just resigned. “Come inside. You’ll need some ice.” After a small pause. “Please leave your shoes on the porch. They’re filthy.”

Ginsberg got up stiffly, toed out of his sneakers, and followed them into the house, shuffling awkwardly down the hallway in his sock feet. Their kitchen was bright and colorful, like the inside of a magazine spread from probably twenty years ago. It was painted a bright robin’s-egg-blue, with white wooden cabinets filled with yellow and green and white dishes. There were a set of copper pots gleaming on the far left wall, and below this, on three rows of mounted hooks that spread across the length of the wall, was a huge teacup collection. Not the kind of fancy china cups he saw on tv programs—but hanging mugs of all different sizes and shapes, plain, patterned, some with writing on them. Couple of ugly homemade ones, too. Like kids had done them.

“I’m putting the kettle on,” said the man as he filled a beat-up metal teapot at the sink. “Anything in particular?”

To Ginsberg’s left, standing in front of the yellow refrigerator, the woman put ice cubes into a small ziploc bag. “No green tea. Pick anything else.”

The older man nodded, pulling out a box of matches from the nearest drawer and humming a little as he lit the left front burner.

**

“So, why were you in our garden at three o’clock on a Saturday?”

“Joan,” chided the man, as if the question was inappropriate. “Perhaps we’d—”

The woman bolted one shoulder in a shrug, looking at her husband with wide eyes. “It’s a legitimate question.”

Ginsberg felt himself blush, and his voice cracked as he answered. “Yeah—it’s—nothing—I’m—I really should—”

They stared at him, eyes narrowed, in identical expressions of _not-buying-it_ , and he wanted to die. Joan finally broke the silence, and put a hand on her husband’s arm as she spoke. “Honey, would you mind going upstairs and getting that record from the turntable? The one we bought last month?”

“What?” the Englishman said, frowning. “I—well, I suppose I—could—” he stared at her for another second, as if expecting her to tell him some kind of code word, then got to his feet and left the room, mumbling under his breath.

“You want to listen to music?” Ginsberg asked her after a moment, not understanding.

She shook her head no, and took another sip of her tea, putting the cup back onto its saucer. “Are you in love with Peggy?”

“Jesus,” Ginsberg sputtered in a pathetic way, turning so red he had to hide his face with one hand, staring at a spot on the wall. “I—she’s—”

He couldn’t think of a word to describe her that wasn’t a compliment— _smart fun sexy_

“Tiny,” he said in a small voice.

This earned him a raised eyebrow, and another calm question. “So, it’s Stan?”

God, he couldn’t even get his mouth around words for Stan—shoulders, his freak mind supplied in a betrayal, _big strong shoulders._ His face burned; his throat had closed up entirely, and he went back to staring at that particular spot on their kitchen wall. There was a red and black calendar hanging up near the doorway, with the farmer’s almanac on it.

Ginsberg had nothing else to say, nothing that could get him out of this hell. He risked a look back at the redhead a few seconds later, but she was sipping her tea again.

“I don’t care if you are,” she said, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth, like she could already tell what he wouldn’t admit. Her hands curled around the bottom of her teacup. “You’re always together. I’m curious.”

Like it was funny, in a _kids-these-days_ sort of way he didn’t know if he liked.

“Sorry, darling— _which_ record?” came a confused voice from upstairs, and Ginsberg seized on the sudden distraction, jumping to his feet, tossing his bag of ice in the sink, and sputtering out thankyous and apologies to Joan as he went. He almost tripped running down the front steps in his socks, but felt better until he reached the sidewalk and ran headlong into Stan’s chest.

“Dude, they had you _over?_ ” the other man asked, incredulous. His big hands were keeping Ginsberg upright, balanced on his upper arms.

“No. Yeah. I don’t know,” Ginsberg gasped, shoving Stan away from him and sprinting away, up the front stoop, inside their apartment, and into the bathroom, where he slammed the door and sat down against the cold tile with a wheeze, leaning his head back against the wood.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

**

Peggy didn’t sound pissed off. “You have to come out sometime.”

“No, I don’t,” Ginsberg retorted through the closed door, beating the back of his head against it as quietly as he could. God, it was torture being back in the apartment. He could smell Peggy’s perfume, and the white tile under his left hand was the one with a hairline crack in it. Stan kept swearing he was gonna fix and then kept forgetting to, and even sitting in this stupid bathroom makes him feel weird, glancing up at Peggy’s makeup stuff on the rim of the sink, and Stan’s sweaty workout clothes hung over the shower rod—

Oh, god—he was having the thoughts again—he had to get out of here—

Ginsberg fell backwards through the air before he could move, and as the rush of cool air swirled around his body, above him stood Peggy, a brass key gleaming in her hand.

“Shit,” he gasped.

She smiled at him, almost vicious. “I keep it in my nightstand.”

Then she pinned him to the carpet, him flailing around trying not to let her know how much he liked it, although his hands were on her sides and under her long skirt her bare thighs were hot against his middle and it was killing him.

“Why are you being weird?” she demanded with a little laugh.

“You’re freaking us out,” Stan supplied, still standing in the middle of the living room.

“No, I’m—Peggy, _don’t_ —” he gasped, as she threatened to pitch back from her position straddling his stomach. But she had to scoot towards his hips to stay upright, and he accidentally thrust up and she _knew,_ she could feel how hard he was through his pants, and he let out this tiny little gasp and was so embarrassed he wanted to sink through the floorboards.

“Oh,” Peggy said, quiet.

The silence was awful.

“Dude,” Stan finally said, and his surprised expression was horrible. Michael was sure he was about to call him a bunch of disgusting names, and had to turn his face away.

“I’m sorry.” His breath was coming fast, and his voice was so small. “I heard you the other night—and I couldn’t stop thinking about it—you can kick me out—I’ll go away, I swear.”

Peggy was still sitting on him. She could feel how excited he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He couldn’t stand it if his two best friends were gonna pity him.

“We don’t want you to go _away_ ,” she said, in a voice that meant it should have been obvious.

“Goddamn it—” he sputtered. He didn’t know what else to do; his brain was still stuck on the fact that she was still straddling the front of his pants. “Could you not—I can’t think when you’re—”

She tilted her hips forward again, once, twice, and he felt his mind go completely blank, just staring up at her with his mouth open slightly because it felt so good.

“That’s…what you want, isn’t it?” she asked, voice quiet now, and all he could do was whisper a _yes_ , because _Jesus_.

He looked to his right, where Stan was now sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, watching them. His cheeks were pink, and from his position on the floor Ginsberg could see the way his cock strained against his zipper, and felt heat roar over him in a wave. He wasn’t—

“Stan,” Peggy said, and her voice was different somehow—deeper, commanding.

“Come on,” Stan said after a pause, his voice kinda hoarse, one hand twitching over his stomach like he was trying to keep from touching himself. Ginsberg stared at him until one of Peggy’s hands stroked over the zipper of his own pants, and he sucked in a sharp breath, whipping back around to meet her gaze.

She rocked against him, not even moving to get her skirt out of the way, just grinding down on him until he felt like he could barely breathe. When he looked over at Stan again, the other man had peeled off his plaid shirt and was working on his belt, and Ginsberg felt himself twitch under Peggy’s weight.

“Ooh,” she called to Stan, with a laugh that was practically evil. “He likes you.”

As Stan peeled off everything but his briefs, crawling closer to them, Peggy moved down Ginsberg’s body, her hands sliding over his stomach and thighs in a way that made him desperate to be touched. By the time she had his pants off a few minutes later, and was rubbing him through the fabric of his underwear in little teasing strokes, he was babbling.

“Shit—Peg—oh, please—”

When she stripped him of his briefs and put her bare hand on him, he yelped. And then he felt a larger hand replace hers on his cock and almost passed out.

“God,” he whispered, as Stan’s thumb teased over his head.

They worked him together until his legs were shaking, until Stan had to hold Ginsberg’s hips down, Peggy stroking him harder and faster until Ginsberg couldn’t take it anymore; he bucked up against their palms with a noise like a sob, his entire body trembling as he came.

“I’m—oh,” he was shivering against the threadbare carpet like he’d been shut out in a December blizzard, although he was sweating from the heat. “It was—too fast—I—”

Peggy leaned in and kissed him in response, until he was so caught up by what she was doing with her tongue he forgot all about trying to apologize. When they parted he could see Stan’s eyes were dark with lust.

“Ginzo,” he said roughly, “you ever eat a woman out before?”

“Oh my god,” Ginsberg whispered, and he could feel Peggy tense in anticipation.

They got her on her back, Stan stroking his hands across her breasts to start with, like he loved watching her reaction; Ginsberg kneeling next to her waist, studying them with wide eyes. He was afraid of doing something wrong at first, but Stan pulled him over for a kiss—beard scratching over Ginsberg’s skin—and used his tongue in a way that made Ginsberg shake again. When they parted, the other man let out a satisfied huff of breath.

“Do that to her tits—she’ll be on the edge before you know it.”

He…wasn’t wrong. Peggy shrieked and gasped and shook as they used their mouths on her—Ginsberg couldn’t even tell if she came two or three times, it kind of overlapped at one point and he was just fucking amazed by women. There wasn’t even a holdover.

How the hell did they ever get anything done?

“I could get used to this,” she sighed happily, as they got Stan onto his back. Ginsberg was getting that familiar heady rush as he met the other man’s eyes. He wanted to make Stan make that whimpering noise again. He wanted to feel Stan’s legs tremble under his palms.

“Can—you show me—something?” he asked Peggy, who stopped tracing patterns across Stan’s chest in order to lean over, peck Ginsberg on the cheek, and cop another feel while she was at it.

“He’s so cute,” she quipped to Stan, who was on the verge of laughing until Ginsberg gripped the other man’s hips with two hands, licked his lips, and bent his head down to start something that would prove to be popular as hell over the next few months.

**

Ginsberg yanked a fresh undershirt out of the spare room dresser. The rest of his stuff was finally out of boxes and it was more or less organized now, except for the towering stacks of papers on his desk and the overflowing laundry hamper by his closet door. On the plus side, the bed was made and the hardwood floor was so clean you could almost see your face in it. He’d gotten anxious late last night and spent an hour scrubbing the boards with Murphy’s oil and a huge stiff-bristle brush. Peggy looked so proud when she saw his handiwork in the morning that Michael almost forgot to feel bad about…well, feeling bad.

 “Where the fuck are my socks?” he yelled out loud to no one, running a hand through his still-wet hair. Interview starts at noon, and it’s already ten. Shit, shit, shit.

“Your fucking desk,” came the loud reply, followed by the sound of someone rummaging through a closet. “Hey, don’t pick out a tie. Peg’s got one, apparently.”

Ginsberg’s brain was still stuck on _desk_ until he remembered—he’d stuck a pack of unopened socks into the bottom drawer, the day he’d officially moved in. It turned out they were black tube socks, not really interview clothes, but close enough.

Peggy sailed into the room, a short length of dark blue silk in her hand.

Ginsberg frowned at the tie, not recognizing the pattern. “Whose is that?”

“Morris helped me pick it out,” she said, putting her hands on her hips in a way that meant he wasn’t to argue. “It’s supposed to be good luck.”

As she looped it over his head, and tied a windsor knot so fast he felt dizzy watching her hands move, Ginsberg had to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from freaking out about that.

“You okay?” she asked after a moment, studying his reaction.

He nodded once, the movement jerky.

She gave him a reassuring smile. “They wouldn’t call you in if they didn’t like your work. And I know Cynthia loved it. She couldn’t stop talking about the first chapter.”

“I guess,” was all Ginsberg could manage, his eyes darting to the doorway, where Stan leaned against the frame in sweatpants and a pajama shirt flecked with spots of old paint, eating a leg of cold chicken leftover from probably two weeks ago. Jesus.

“Want me to fix your hair?” he offered, between two huge bites.

“Get out of here,” Ginsberg retorted, like Stan was some kind of goddamned nuisance, but as he said it he felt this swooping feeling in his stomach that was halfway between nervousness and a hysterical kind of excitement. His entire body was tingling in a good way, kind of like it did right after they had sex, or when he thought of that perfect hook for a new story. Don’t jinx it. Don’t jinx it.

“’M seri’us,” Stan said again, mouth thick with food as he wiped some grease from his chin with his shirtsleeve. A piece of gristle dropped onto the floor, and the cat was already jumping down from its perch on the living room sofa to get it. “’M really good.”

“Oh, give me that,” Peggy hissed, crossing the room toward Stan and slapping at his hand just as Ginsberg’s jacket started to fall off the edge of the bed. Not wanting to take chances with that shit on what just might turn out to be a good day, he moved to snatch it up by the sleeve before the whole thing could puddle on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a song by The Animals, "We Gotta Get Out of This Place," which I forever associate with Team Creative because of **pleasantscreams**.


End file.
